


Of sealing wax and bobby pins

by nightbloomingcereus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Good Omens Lockdown, Humor, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Quarantine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomingcereus/pseuds/nightbloomingcereus
Summary: "Becauseapparentlythe only way to see you nowadays is to break into your shop and try to steal your cash box."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 238
Collections: Good Omens Lockdown fics





	Of sealing wax and bobby pins

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 30th Anniversary to Good Omens!

The sealing wax must have been smoking more than usual, because Aziraphale's eyes were watering. 

The tip of the wax stick turned soft and malleable in the candle flame. He touched it to the letter on the desk, leaving a satisfying smear of molten green across the flap. There was a heavy brass stamp sitting beside the letter, with a design of two angel wings flanking an open book that could have been the Bible (it was in fact not the Bible, although very few people knew that fact). He picked up the stamp, contemplated it for a few seconds, and then placed it back down on the table. Instead, he twisted the signet ring off his pinky and pressed the flat surface of it into the puddle of paraffin. The ring came away with a slight, sticky resistance, leaving the imprint of its coat of arms, worn shallow through millennia of running his fingers across it, in the soft wax. He slid the ring back onto his finger; there were tiny flecks of green wax still stuck in its grooves. It was the color of fresh absinthe, intoxicating and irresistible. Green for hope, green for love, green for all the things he hadn't found the courage to say.

He blew out the candle, watched as the flame sputtered and died, leaving behind a thin, trailing stream of smoke. He flipped the letter over now that the wax was dry, and ran his thumbs over Crowley's name, inked there in his own flowing script, black and indelible. He pressed the heels of his hands into his stinging eyes, and looked at the letter on his desk. Several times, he moved his hands as if to initiate a miracle, to send that letter hurtling through metaphysical space to land in Crowley's letter-box, on his doorstep, on his bedside table, but something stayed his hand each time. 

Some time passed, perhaps thirty minutes or more; he couldn't say for sure. Time was strange for immortal beings even under ordinary circumstances, and doubly so in lockdown, without the normal routines of shop hours, however irregular, and semi-consistent outings for meals and shows. (One couldn't feed the ducks or visit the nice little patisserie down the street or watch a live Shakespeare production at the Globe at two in the morning, but one could perfectly well consume Bundt cake and kirschtorte at any time of the day or night so long as one had a proper cuppa to go with. One sort of had to, if one were to ever have hopes of finishing the sheer quantity of scrumptious desserts one had made to keep from spending all one's time thinking about a certain frustrating demon.) Eventually, he was roused from his reverie by a rattling sound from the direction of the back door, followed by a series of metallic clicking noises and a muffled curse or six. 

"Oh, not again," he groaned, squaring his shoulders and picking up _Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management_ , whose primary utility, he could now safely say after his recent excursions into the culinary world, was as a blunt object with which to knock people over the head. 

Just as he reached the back door, he heard a tinny clatter as if of numerous small objects falling to the ground, followed by a muffled thump and a very familiar, very exasperated voice saying, "Bollocks!" 

With a gesture, Aziraphale unlocked all five of the locks on the door and flung it open. On the doorstep outside, Crowley was crouched down, scrabbling around on the concrete. He looked up as the door swung open; very little of his face was visible, what with the inevitable dark sunglasses and the addition of a black fabric mask covering most of the lower part of his face. Still, Aziraphale could detect a hopeful lift of his eyebrows on the small portion of exposed skin. Crowley's mask fit nearly as tightly as his trousers did, and probably would not have been at all comfortable or even possible for someone who actually needed to breathe; it somehow managed to accentuate the sharpness of the jawline underneath it, which moved distractingly every time he spoke. He was clutching three bobby pins in his left hand; several more of them, along with two very thin, sleek black credit cards, lay scattered across the stoop.

"Dammit, angel, why've you got so many bloody locks on this thing anyway?"

"To keep out criminals and burglars. Like yourself, apparently. Crowley, why on Earth are you trying to break into my shop?"

"Because _apparently_ the only way to see you nowadays is to break into your shop and try to steal your cash box."

"My cash box? Whatever would you want with that? And whatever are you doing with those bank cards? And are those … hairpins?"

"It always works in the movies," muttered Crowley.

"If you say so, dear. Next time you come up with a harebrained scheme like this, do check with me first. I've got several sets of lockpicks in the back room. They come in handy from time to time. I daresay they work a good sight better than those silly hairpins of yours. Although I _do_ appreciate that you didn't try to smash the window, like those poor boys the other day."

"Where'd you learn to pick locks, Angel?"

"Oh, Harry Houdini taught me, back in the early 1900's when he came to London. John introduced us, at the club. It was 1904 I think, and the Daily Mirror had challenged him to escape from a pair of specially made handcuffs … Oh! Don't try to change the subject, Crowley. I'm still angry at you for breaking quarantine, you fiend." 

"Are you going to give me a stern talking-to then?" Crowley's voice sounded oddly hopeful and less sarcastic than Aziraphale would have expected. 

"What, and send you off with a plate of cakes afterwards? You'd like that, wouldn't you, if I sent you, a demon, back out into the streets to cause who knows what kind of trouble? And armed with those pins of yours no less. That would be dreadfully irresponsible of me. No, I'm afraid there's nothing for it then. I suppose you'll just have to stay here and self-isolate, for at least two weeks." Aziraphale made a show of sighing and gestured at the small distance separating them. The little flecks of green wax stuck in the crevices of his ring were visible in the streetlight. "Besides, we are clearly less than two meters apart right now. I suppose I've been… compromised as well."

"Would be the right thing to do. You're an angel, after all. You _have_ to do the right thing."

"I do hope you've brought that wine, dear. We'll be here for quite some time, it seems. I shall teach you how to pick locks, save you from this sort of embarrassing situation next time. I think I've still got my handcuffs lying around somewhere in the upstairs flat. And I've been spending some of my time learning new magic tricks…"

"Ngk. Let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we, Angel? Start with that stern talking-to, and we'll see where things go from there."


End file.
